


You Are My Bitter Rival (But I Need You for Survival)

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Enemies for life, Friends to Enemies to something?, Futurefic, M/M, mysterious happenings, nygmobblepotweek, post 3.14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 05:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10269359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: Oswald recovers, Oswald heals, but Oswald stays angry, as does Ed, and the two enter a longtime war against one another, but when Ed's influence in Gotham starts waning, and Oswald takes full control, he can't help but miss Ed's antagonism, that is, until he has bigger issues to deal with at home.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my contribution for Nygmobblepotweek!

The water cradles him, numbs the edges and blurs, distorting Ed above on the docks, distorting everything outside the murky few feet in front of him. It’s almost peaceful, calming, until his lungs begin to burn from the effort, until his stomach screams in protest from every frantic kick and still, he sinks, and all he has to show for it is a bullet to the gut and some heavy, painful aches in his head and his heart. Because he loves Ed, truly, honestly loves him, and it wasn’t enough to stop him from pulling the trigger.

His hands struggle, tugging away at the too loose bindings and pulling up, and up, and the edges of his vision darken, and  _ damn it  _ he forgot just how painful a bullet wound can be but oh, he remembers now, remembers with too much clarity. He blames the water, blames the cold and the numbing for making his limbs useless but “mercifully” leaving his core to feel and burn and  _ hurt  _ as he fights a losing battle with the bay.

There must be a cruel irony here somewhere, but Oswald struggles to piece together the proper phrase as his lungs release, and he gulps in lungfuls of water, and his vision goes dark.

-

Coughing, as it turns out, hurts  _ worse  _ when you’ve been shot in the stomach. Who knew?

There’s a brief sense of pure, unbridled terror as he thinks,  _ of fucking course he’d drag me out just to shoot me again _ , but no, Oswald struggles to open his eyes, blinking away murky water and dirt and whatever his body started doing during that terrifying few minutes (seconds? He can’t be sure) while he was certain he was going to  _ die  _ and sees two, well, they’re certainly  _ something  _ but Oswald doesn’t have a word for whatever the men are that flank either side of Fish.

“Wh-” he attempts to ask, but he coughs, deep, and groans when his stomach protests.

“I believe I made it clear to  _ everyone  _ to stay out of my bay, Penguin,” she says, tilting her head to one side, and watching him struggle. “And yet, here we are.”

“Fish, you, I,” he takes shallow breaths, staving off more coughing, or at least hoping that’s what he’s doing, but the buzz he feels in his chest with each breath can’t be a good sign of anything.

“I’m not done with you yet Penguin,” she says, walking closer, and Oswald’s instincts kick in and he tries to scramble away, “uhuh, none of that,” she snaps her fingers and her two goons move to Oswald and block his exits, “I pulled you out of this water, and when you’re back on your feet, strong little “king” once again, you’re going to remember who pulled you from the bay.”

Oswald cringes away as she leans in and pats him on the head, mismatched eyes staring right through him. “You did this so I’d owe you a favor?”

“I did this, my little umbrella boy, because if I hadn’t you’d be dead, and all that time and effort I’ve put into you would be lost. You owe me, and you know it, and I don’t think you’re going to forget any time soon.” She snaps again, and motions towards the street, and her men start moving. “Take care of yourself Penguin. Don’t you dare waste my generosity.”

Oswald watches as they start walking away, and presses up, wincing from his stomach and leg, shivering from the cold, and he makes a hasty, panicked decision to call out, “wait! At least,” he takes a few breaths while Fish turns around, “at least take me to a hospital. You, you can’t just leave me out here and expect me to get to help.”

“You really want to owe me for two favors?”

“Yes,” he nods, face pinching and panic ballooning in his chest, “yes,  _ please _ , Fish I, I need-”

“Shut up, Penguin, or I will leave you out here,” she calls back to him, and snaps a third time, sending one of her men over, and he  _ picks Oswald up _ . Humiliation blooms alongside the panic, but he can’t get his legs to cooperate, or his stomach, and he lets his head hit the man’s chest and closes his eyes, breathing, shivering,  _ surviving _ .

-

Ed’s hands haven’t stopped shaking for nearly two days.

“Where are we going Detective?” he asks Jim, looking over from the passenger seat, quaking,  _ trembling _ , he can’t seem to get his peripheral nervous system to cooperate enough to make it stop.

“Just a quick detour,” he tells Ed, he’s been telling Ed a lot of things over the past few days. Things Ed can’t really fault him for even when they cut to his very being; he is, after all, guilty, even if he can’t string those particular words together and just  _ say  _ it out loud. “It shouldn’t be a long trip.”

He pulls into Gotham General, motions for Ed to hop out of his seat and follow. Ed shoves his hands into his pants pockets, letting them shake there against his thighs instead of out in the open where everyone will see, because surely, this is his guilt, manifesting physically, trying to convey his crimes without words.

The halls are busy, but not crowded, and Jim leads them down a hall towards patient rooms, and towards an officer standing outside a room with Cobblepot, O. on the door, and Ed’s breath catches.

“Keep it moving,” Jim tells him, shoving him through the open doorway and there, lying propped up against several pillows, scowl firmly in place and a morphine drip in his arm, is Oswald, and Ed’s responses dwindle down to shallow, panicked breathing and a full body quaking he hadn’t thought possible when he isn’t cold. He’s shocked. Oswald, there, right there, he is  _ shocked _ . He can’t, there is so much running through his head right now and  _ he is  _ **_shocked_ ** .

“How are you doing Mayor Cobblepot?” Jim asks, and Ed’s legs lock up. Jim sees him.  _ He sees Oswald. _

“Well, I’ve been  _ shot _ , and I am in pain,” Oswald says plainly, “but this morphine is  _ delightful _ . I would also like to thank you for the security detail, but there’s no need. My personal detail is around somewhere.”

Zsasz, or possibly Gabe. Either man would shoot Ed in the face without a second thought if Oswald commanded it, morphine high or not.

“The mayor of Gotham was nearly killed.”  _ By me. By my hands- _ “We’re not going anywhere.”

“Well, I am pleased to know you  _ care  _ James.”

“We don't want your attacker making another move. I just have a couple questions if you think you’re up to answering,” Jim says, looking over at Ed with a shit eating grin, then back to Oswald, and Ed’s breath catches when Oswald nods. “Great. Thank you.” He pulls out a notepad. “I’m assuming you know your attacker, and it would be really helpful if you could tell me who it is. You’d save the GCPD a hell of a lot of time.”

An achingly familiar,  _ painful  _ sensation in Ed’s chest overtakes the panic, and pure, unbridled terror settles into the space Ed imagines his heart used to be. He breathes shallowly, afraid if he lets himself get enough air that all he’ll be capable of is screaming. Being identified means arrest, it means being sent back to  _ Arkham _ . Oswald holds every card; he is judge, jury, and executioner in Gotham v. Edward Nygma, and no force on  _ earth  _ can save Ed now.

“Tabitha,” Oswald says. Ed chokes.

Jim closes his notebook. “Tabitha? Really?”

“Oh, my apologies, Tabitha  _ Galavan _ ,” Oswald clarifies.

“Oswald, er, Mr. Cobblepot,” Jim huffs. “You can’t be serious.”

“She gave me this,” he says as he lifts his neck, presenting it to them both. “Or, maybe the shooter was Barbara Keane. Or Butch Gilzean. Honestly, who can remember?”

“ _ Oswald _ .” Jim growls.

“Oh Jim  _ calm down _ ,” he says with a smile. “I’m just being glib. But in all seriousness, despite their little team, it was most definitely  _ just _ Tabitha Galavan.”

“Stay there,” Jim pokes Ed’s chest, and Ed nods shakily. “Mr. Mayor, a word?”

He’ll stay here. He’ll watch, he’ll breathe, he’ll be  _ fine _ . Ed bites his lip when laughter bubbles up his throat, or maybe he’s nauseated. He might be nauseated. But he promised he wouldn’t move. So he breathes in through his nose, out through this mouth. Or is it in mouth, out nose? Both nose? Ed’s vision starts blurring. He pulls his hands from his pockets and counts in hexadecimal on his fingers.

He can’t bare to look over at the hospital bed for long, or Oswald, giving Jim a sassy look while Jim flounders about trying to get Oswald to “just tell the damn truth already we both know it wasn’t Tabitha”, but he’s persistent, and Ed, well Ed is doing his damnedest to not fall over.

Jim shakes his head, and he turns from Oswald’s hospital bed, stalking out of the room and bumping into Ed on his way out. Ed stumbles, and catches himself on a nearby chair, waiting for Jim to call out for him to follow, but no instructions come, and Ed lowers himself into the chair for a moment, resting his forehead on his knees and gulping air.

“I can’t imagine why  _ you’re  _ such a mess right now, considering  _ you’re  _ the reason I’m here.”

“You lied,” Ed whispers to the carpeted floor.

“I did.”

“You  _ lied  _ to  _ Jim _ ,” Ed says again, just a hair louder. He sits up,seeing nothing,  breathing deeply for what feels like the first time in days.

“I assume I covered that already when I agreed with you.”

Ed laughs once, a harsh, barking laugh, and covers his mouth with his hand. Overwhelming, powerful emotions wash away the terror constricting his chest; the room blurs and he blinks, feeling hot tears on his cheeks.

“I’m not going to Arkham,” he says, disbelieving, but when he looks to Oswald he sees Oswald nod, and he laughs again. “You lied  _ for  _ me.”

“I suppose that’s one interpretation,” Oswald hums, resting his hands gingerly over his stomach.

“You’re alive.”

“I’m  _ painfully  _ aware, thank you.”

He swallows down his exclamation of  _ you’re real  _ before it can fully form. His shadow Oswald hasn’t followed him in here, lurking in a corner and tipping his head to the side, the oh so irritating ‘sucks huh’ expression on his face and a smirk mocking Ed’s every move. This is the genuine article, scars and all.

Ed gets up, shaky but feeling light, weightless as he crosses the room to Oswald’s hospital bed and stands above him. Oswald regards him listlessly, eyes a bit lidded from morphine no doubt. Ed smiles, breathes in a choppy, hitching breath, and leans down, carefully pulling Oswald to him in a loose hug.

“You have no idea how grateful I am so see you.”

“This is quite the emotional turnaround for you,” Oswald comments, bored of his room or maybe Ed’s emotional outburst.

“I was angry,” he explains ( _ am angry _ , he thinks), “livid. I wasn’t thinking, or perhaps I was thinking too much.” He puts his face on Oswald’s shoulder. “I have to confess, I’m having a bit of trouble making sense of what I’m feeling.”

“Well then let me enlighten you,” Oswald coos in his ear. He tightens his arms a fraction, and Ed appreciates the increased pressure against his back. He wonders where Oswald learned such an incredible skill. “You’re angry. And you’re scared. Your life is and will forever be in my hands, all because you were too much of a coward to shoot me somewhere that actually counts.”

_ Oh _ . Ed gulps. “Oswald-”

“Do you want to know the real reason I kept you out of Arkham?” Oswald asks, smug and spiteful; Ed feels a shiver run down his back. “I saved your hide so you can watch me, so you can see me alive and happy and thriving  _ without  _ you there by my side.” He shoves Ed away, and he stumbles, catching himself on the edge of the bed. “I saved you to destroy you myself, because we both know I was right, and you can’t  _ possibly  _ fathom a world where I’m the one turning you away, but here we are. Get out of my hospital room. Get out of my home.  _ Get out of my life _ !” Oswald’s heart monitor speeds up with each demand, and he lies back, taking deep, calming breaths.

Ed bites his quivering lip, embarrassed, ego irreparable, life in shambles, and yet he feels compelled to stand by Oswald, to calm him down, but he can’t truly stand by him, not anymore.

“If you’re not out by morning Gabe will put your things on the lawn. I’m being discharged tomorrow, and I’d appreciate it if all traces of you were gone before then.”

Ed nods, blinking fast, and he turns to speed walk out of the room, then the house (Oswald’s house), and finally Oswald's life.

-

War, as it turns out, is much less a grueling firefight and more an unending inconvenience in Oswald’s life.

He heals, he recovers, he grows angry and vengeful, but he never uses deadly force. What good is a war if it doesn't last a lifetime? War is petty, and personal, and nuanced, but it's also very, very tiresome.

Their encounters are fleeting, mere glimpses of one another, preferring to backstab in the shadows rather than confront their issues face to face. Oswald isn't certain how he would react to seeing Ed up close and in person. No amount of daydreaming and fantasizing gives him any clarity on the subject, for his  _ or  _ Ed's motives.

But regardless of motive it's  _ their  _ war. Some days it's the only thing that motivates Oswald to get out of bed; dark, dreary days when his leg aches and his stomach pinches up painfully, when not even the thought of getting Gotham back into the palm of his hand can brighten his mood. So when Ed goes to Arkham a year into the firefight Oswald “conveniently” unlocks the cell block that includes Ed when he's getting his own men out. A mere coincidence, he assures himself, but not even  _ he  _ truly believes that.

And when Oswald gets injured in a heavy turf battle with the Joker, Ed is there even if only in spirit, and Oswald watches with reluctant awe as the Riddler's goons take down the Joker's with their superior tech, leaving Oswald to limp home safely to treat yet another wound, adding one more scar to the multitude covering his body, like angry brush strokes on a fresh canvas.

(He rather enjoys that, imagining his body as some macabre art piece for Gotham's museums.)

Two years into their feud (although it feels like it's been  _ much  _ longer), there's a power shift, a definite change in tactics, namely, Ed's definite  _ lack  _ of power, and Oswald's steady gain. Penguin becomes a true household name, and Riddler fades until he's merely an afterthought, a nuisance at best, yet somehow it’s the  _ loss  _ of Ed's near constant interruptions of Oswald's plans that keeps him up at night.

But not this  _ particular  _ night, because he's awake due to a recent arm injury, a nasty, ugly wound from a  _ hand axe  _ of all things. (He's really beginning to loathe thematic criminals as a whole.) He's just lucky everything went back in place well enough, that it's grisly but shallow, and when his pain medication is working his discomfort is minimal, any lingering pain dulled to a mild throbbing.

Except now it  _ isn't  _ working, and he's in pain, and he can't take the pills on an empty stomach unless he wants to vomit, so he sits up in bed, seething, and cries out, “Olga!”

He waits a few minutes in silence before grumbling to himself and moving to the edge of his bed, reaching for his cane with his uninjured arm and forcing himself upright. He ties his robe once he's straightened out his back and huffs once, steeling himself for his late night foray, and he walks towards the kitchen.

He's been experimenting with self-sufficiency, determined to never truly rely on anyone ever again, which unfortunately includes late night sandwich preparation. The only benefit he's accepted is at the very least the sandwich will be exactly to his liking, and it's enough to improve his mood somewhat despite the aching in his arm.

Oswald has his go to sandwich down to a science, even with only one functional arm. Wheat bread, thick cut, mustard spread on the top piece and a small amount of whipped butter on the bottom. He tosses the knife into the sink, where it clatters against the metal side. Oswald moved back to his fridge and selects his cheese, ham, and lettuce, and he layers them ascending to descending, cheese ham lettuce ham cheese, and he carefully places the second piece of bread on top and pats it down slightly.

He smiles down at his late night handiwork, and he's nearly being eating it when another series of stinging lights up his right arm, and he swears, setting his sandwich back onto the plate so he can retrieve his medication from the bathroom counter.

It isn't far from the kitchen to his preferred bathroom, which is why Oswald finds it so terribly  _ odd  _ that in the short amount of time it takes to walk there and back his sandwich has managed to disappear, plate and all.

“Victor?” he asks loudly. He  _ would _ come and poach Oswald's food just for the hell of it, or perhaps, “Olga?” Has come around, thinking her employer has forgotten he snack he prepared and cleaned up after him. He'll need to have a word with the two of them in the morning.

Oswald pockets his medication and moves to the sink, reaching for the knife he used to apply his mustard and butter, but even as he reaches he notices it's no longer there, and he frowns down at the empty sink. He peeks into the drain, and on the surrounding counter tops, but it's gone.

Odd, but if it  _ was  _ Olga then it's reasonable to assume she would clean up after him. He makes himself a second sandwich and doesn't spare I another thought.

-

Until  _ neither  _ of his proposed culprits own up to taking his sandwich, Olga having been “asleep” and Zsasz claiming to hate wheat bread. And Oswald is mildly angry that neither of his employees see fit to tell him the truth, but then it happens another night while Olga is most  _ definitely  _ asleep, and Zsasz is off on a mission given to him by Oswald just that morning.

“It was  _ there _ , Olga now don't  _ tell  _ me I'm seeing things. I think I remember making myself a  _ sandwich. _ ”

She worries about him, says he's not sleeping right, but who  _ would _ , when his home is apparently being invaded by sandwich thieves. He'd like to see  _ her  _ sleep through the night if she was in his position.

He's up constantly, never fully settling into restful sleep, but occasionally even Oswald can't fight his way through the fog caused by his pain medication, so he doesn't wake when someone places a carefully made sandwich on the table next to his bed now until morning. Zsasz certainly wouldn't try to appease him this way, so it must be Olga, wanting to ease the worries of her boss, and Oswald sits up, dragging the plate into his lap and taking a bite.

It's perfect. The mustard, the layers, and there's just a little helping of whipped butter, just the way he likes-

It's  _ exactly  _ the way he likes it. Down to the butter. Down to the layering, even the  _ amount  _ is perfect. He recoils from the sandwich, setting it back onto his plate and moving it off his lap, eyeing it more like some sort of gross thing than a “harmless”, tasty treat.

Olga, wonderful, helpful woman that she is, can't make a perfect sandwich to save her life. It's a flaw Oswald's come to live with, but here he is, presented with a perfect sandwich, and only a few options as to  _ how  _ it came to be.

Perhaps it  _ was  _ Zsasz all along. He's observant enough to notice how Oswald likes his food, but it doesn't explain how his  _ second _ sandwich went missing while Zsasz was away.

Olga could have  _ maybe  _ learned how to make his sandwich, but he dismisses the thought.

Which leaves him with a third unpleasant option, the pain medication is making him lose time. Alarming, probably a concern he should address, but it's clearly the most likely of all his options. Oswald grabs the pill bottle from the bedside table and tosses it into the trash.  _ That  _ should clear up any lingering concerns.

Then, he eats the sandwich. Obviously he made it for himself and forgot, if his pill theory is true. He savors it a little bit more, like an early victory, pleased he's managed to solve this mystery without jumping to conclusions.

-

His pen goes missing.

Not just any pen though, his  _ favorite  _ pen. His  _ best  _ pen, one he's very careful to always put back in the same place (a small pen box on his desk) and now, inexplicably, it’s not there.

“Olga, I don't think you  _ understand _ the severity of the situation. This is my  _ favorite  _ pen. One I take great pains to ensure it is  _ always  _ where I can find it, tucked safely away, and you're treating it like some common ballpoint!” He screams, then he closes his eyes, breathing harshly but slowing down. “I went through a fair amount of  _ effort  _ to get this pen, Olga, now please, try to remember, have you seen my pen?”

“No, Mr. Cobblepot. No pens.”

“How is that possible?” he roars. “It didn't just walk away! Pens don't… walk,” he trails off, as he sees a pen, rocking side to side near the threshold of the door as if it's just rolled right on over here, and he gets up, crossing the room quickly so he can kneel down and pick it up. “What?”

It's his pen. He launches himself through the doorway, but no one is lurking in the hall.

_ It didn't just walk away _ , he thinks,  _ but it didn't exactly walk  _ **_back_ ** _ either. _ And yet, here it is. He walks back to his desk, legs quaking, and he sits heavily. “Olga, if you would be so kind, bring me some strong coffee.”

-

Oswald, having been enduring oddities throughout the following week, comes to a startling conclusion. He's being haunted.

His mustard was a shelf higher in the fridge, his pens aren't running off but they're moving about his desk while he's away, inexplicably favoring the  _ left  _ side of his desk instead of the right, and possibly the most alarming, his morning paper was  _ missing  _ a few pages right out of the middle of the edition. He'd been unable to finish an article he was enraptured in because of this and had to take the time to go purchase a second copy.

Something is most definitely not right at the Van Dahl estate.

“Olga you don't understand the  _ gravity  _ of the situation,” Oswald pleads with her. “You must have noticed something. A, a, a pot out of place? Plates disappearing? Please, think very, very carefully.”

“Nothing, Mr. Cobblepot.” She's probably  _ ignoring  _ him, dusting away as if there's nothing to worry about.

“That is impossible!” He feels his temper flaring, building up in his chest. He embraces it, favors it over the cold fear that snaps him awake when he hears the patter of mysterious feet in the hall. Olga doesn't  _ patter. No one  _ in his employ  _ patters _ . But the sound of these feet, light and quick, can't be called anything else. “Someone, some _ thing _ has taken up residence in  _ my  _ home, using  _ my _ things. I don't understand how you can, what, what are you doing?”

She's holding him by the arm, sturdy and firm but not painful, and actually  _ dragging  _ him to the couch. He's baffled, stunned enough to comply when she motions for him to sit, then to lie down. “You're unwell,” she tells him. “Sleep.”

“How  _ dare  _ you order me around!” he snaps, but he doesn't make a move to retaliate, or to actually get up off the couch once there's a blanket tossed over him. “I am your  _ boss _ , Olga! I tell  _ you  _ what to do, not the other way around!”

Oswald settles in, mollified that his authority won't be questioned again, and closes his eyes. Not that he's going to  _ condone  _ this brazen behavior, but Olga might be onto something, because Oswald can feel himself letting go as he slips into a relaxed, dosing state. Admittedly, he  _ has  _ been struggling to get a proper night's rest. He can spare an hour or two.

But barely ten minutes into a nap the doorbell rings, interrupting what  _ could  _ have been some quality sleep, and he sits up, grumbling, glaring towards the front door, but he waits, watching while Olga answers, appearing with a small package in hand.

“What is  _ that? _ ” he asks. “ _ I  _ am not expecting a package.”

“Is for Mr. Nygma,” she says plainly as she sets it on a nearby table.

“For  _ whom _ ? Have you forgotten that he no longer lives here?” Olga gives him this unimpressed look and continues her work. “Olga? Olga! Don't look at me like that! Did you hear me? He no longer lives here!”

She leaves the room and Oswald pushes himself up off the couch, speeding over to the table and picking up the package. It's small, unassuming, but also  _ clearly  _ labeled for Ed. Oswald glares down at it, and after a moment of deliberation he pulls out a pocket knife and cuts away the tape, flipping open the box and revealing a small puzzle, based on the wording on the packaging. It's not one Oswald's seen before, but it wasn't unusual for desk toys like this one to show up on the doorstep, Ed eagerly rubbing his hands together and tearing into the box, delighted and excited even when Oswald spared him no enthusiasm.

“This has to be the least clever move he's made yet,” Oswald mutters to himself. If his goal was to remind Oswald of the past he's succeeded, but it's only a fleeting, fond memory followed by a dull ache in his stomach.

There's a patter, quick feet, and Oswald snaps his head around, looking every which way, but he finds nothing, again, and he glares at the empty room. “Show yourself!” he shouts. “Whatever you are!”

Nothing. It figures. He sets the box on a table and resumes his place on the couch, letting his frayed nerves settle until he's fallen asleep.

-

When he wakes it's nearing sundown, and someone's placed a glass of water on the end table near Oswald's feet. Olga, or maybe his little poltergeist trying to make amends. Oswald ignores it either way once he discovers it's nearly room temperature.

He gets up off the couch after a bit of stretching and hones in on the box he'd examined before, finding the contents removed but the box approximately where it was before he fell asleep. Oswald picks up the box and turns it over in his hands, flipping down the flaps and rereading the text on the top middle.

Ed Nygma.

Oswald frowns as the pieces start sliding into place, and the resulting epiphany hits him hard enough to make him stagger, and he gasps, offended, and storms out of the room, throwing the box to the ground as he goes.

\--

He watches him sinking, shock, pained, hands reaching out, reaching for  _ him _ , and Ed gasps, painful cold air stinging his lungs as he wills his hand to just  _ reach back why aren't you reaching back he needs help he needs  _ **_you_ ** -

His eyes snap open, breath quick, adrenaline pulsing through his veins, and a sense of panic closing at his throat.

“Os, Oswald,” he whispers, needs to know. Ed sits up, blankets sliding off his shoulders, and Ed leaps out of bed, feet padding quickly, slapping against the hardwood as he barrels down the hallway from his bedroom to Oswald's.

He throws open Oswald's bedroom door and finds the bed empty, covers disheveled; he can't have dreamed it all Oswald was  _ fine  _ two days ago, Ed caught a glimpse of him down the hall while he was napping. Maybe Tabitha, or Barbara, or, or-

A polite, quiet couch snaps Ed out of his panic and he focuses on the window, finding Oswald there, nestled in a blanket and his robe, awake and alive, glaring at Ed from his perch.

“Oswald,” he says, reaffirming his presence, confirming he's  _ real _ , and Oswald's eyebrow twitches in annoyance. “You're displeased. I can explain, if you'll give me a moment. I may have relocated, back here, in the mansion. I was,” he pauses, steeling himself, “uncomfortable. With the distance,” he clarifies. “I’m not fond of change. And leaving was,” he chews on his bottom lip, “significant. Sudden. I had hoped, well, I'd hoped for this.” He can manage to pointedly ignore someone in the same space as him, so long as they're still  _ there _ , and alive, and maybe still very angry with him but certainly don't want him dead. Admittedly, his bar is set rather low nowadays. He'll take begrudging tolerance over his other, less viable options.

“Well, I suppose that explains your  _ motive _ for slinking back here without any warning. But you  _ do _ understand why I’m so bothered, don’t you? You’ve been  _ haunting  _ me in my own home, and after what you  _ put me through _ , well, I can imagine anyone would object to a  _ spook  _ lurking in the shadows without so much as a hello.”

Ed lets out a slow breath, not quite a sigh, but close, and he agrees, “I should have announced my return.”

“ _ Yes _ you should have. I shouldn’t have had to wait until you come here to my bedroom, a full month later, half awake and seeking God knows what, just to expect me to, what, throw myself into your arms? One, my leg hurts terribly so I will not be throwing myself into anything, yourself included, but two, honestly, how dare you assume I’ll just forgive and forget all for the sake of  _ you _ .”

He waits a beat. “It’s been two months.”

“ _ Two _ ? Well, my mistake. Congratulations for managing to stay out of my sight for a full month. I’m very proud of you.” He’s being hatefully sarcastic. Ed supposes he has every right to be. “I,” Oswald takes a breath, “do you know what it’s like, thinking I’m hearing things? Whispers of ghosts and phantoms in my ear when I assume I’m alone?”

“I’ve been hearing her again,” he admits.

“Her? Isabella?”

“Sometimes,” he licks his lip, “sometimes it’s Kristen, or both, possibly neither.” Regardless of who it leaves him feeling clammy and cold, shaking on the floor of the bathroom or huddled in the corner of whatever room they decided to appear. “It’s unpleasant.”

“I can imagine thinking I'm being  _ haunted  _ by some unseen force feels similarly panic inducing.” Oswald shifts his weight a bit, turning less towards the window and more towards Ed. Receptive, open to conversation, at least that's what Ed hopes. “What has hindsight shown you this time Ed? What grand epiphany brought you back to my home?”

He licks his lips, sighs, “we have both made mistakes, grave, costly mistakes. And I am  _ furious _ with you,” he growls, then he gulps quietly, “and I am also sorry. I should have pulled back before things got out of hand.”

Oswald blinks twice, and his lips pull into a thin line. “I see.” He looks away from Ed. “Well, for what it’s worth, I share the sentiment.” He glares at Ed. “I could  _ strangle  _ you here and now, I hope you understand that,”  _ it's a figure of speech he doesn't know don't read into it  _ “but I am also sorry. For, I don't know, setting fire to a perfectly good friendship for my own selfish gain.”

It’s forceful, pained, but he’s sincere if not begrudgingly so.

“I can’t forgive you.” Not yet. Not for such a startling betrayal of their friendship, their  _ bond _ . He still sees Oswald’s broken body when he closes his eyes for a bit too long, his hand still clutching a phantom knife or tire iron, whatever he got his hands on in that particular fantasy. “Not so soon.”

“Well, I’m glad I won’t be the only one holding onto the past. You'll come to realize just how long the Penguin can hold onto past grievances.”

“In that case, I can imagine seeing me isn't pleasant for you.”

“You always have had a startlingly accurate imagination.”

“I’ll pack my things,” he starts mentally cataloguing his belongings. The books will be the most labor intensive, but still manageable. Never mind his hangups about change, he'll leave if Oswald demands it a second time. He owes him that much. “If you’re alright with me staying the night I’ll begin in the morning, otherwise-”

“Oh no, no you’re not slipping away into the night where I can’t keep an eye on you,” Oswald shakes his head. “No, you’re staying  _ here _ . You want to lurk around my home, eating my food and using up the hot water? Well, good news Ed, you’re not going anywhere.”

“I'm allowed to stay?”

“You're not allowed to  _ leave _ . Interpret it however you like.”

“Do you still love me?” he blurts out. He can't stand hearing the rejection, but he can't stay here without at least  _ knowing  _ where Oswald stands.

Oswald laughs, cruel, “you’d already be dead on the floor if I didn’t.” He says it like a swear, like he hates the thought of still loving Ed. It stings more than Ed anticipated. “Now go, just get out of my sight.” Ed bites his lip. “Why are you hesitating!? Get out of here!”

“Before,” he says the rest in a rush, “before when your leg hurt I’d bring you a hot water bottle, or heating pad, or-”

“Get. Out.” Oswald glares at him, and Ed nods. He turns away from Oswald and speed walks out of his bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

> It should be known that I already got one prompt that I can tie into this someday, but I'd take more small scenes if anyone wanted them.


End file.
